


We Are the Way We Are

by speccygeekgrrl



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M, introvert vs. extrovert, or rather introvert + extrovert, season three makes me sad so I tried to make myself less sad, would someone please give Howard the MBTI so he can deal with himself a little easier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 09:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13499330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/pseuds/speccygeekgrrl
Summary: As much time as he spends lost inside his own head, it still takes a little outward direction to set Howard on the path to self-discovery. It's one thing to know a word, and another thing to have it defined so plainly that it couldn't be anything but about you. But he didn't know, and he doesn't think Vince knows either.





	We Are the Way We Are

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw this meme about introverts on Facebook.... in 2014. And started writing fic that I dropped when I tried to write a novel in 2015. But I just rewatched the whole series and my first thought was "how many works in progress did I abandon and can I finish them?" so... you tell me if it worked.

He stumbles across it on the internet, and in the time it takes him to read the little graphic, something clicks into place in his head that's been off track for as long as he can remember. "Yes, I'm an introvert," reads the first line, and it's not the first time he's heard the term, but it's the first time he's seen it laid out so plainly. "I'm not shy, I'm not stuck up, I'm not antisocial. I'm just listening. I'm just observing." It resounds somewhere around his solar plexus, fits around him like a broken-in and comfortable cardigan. "I can't stand small talk, but I'll talk about life for hours." Yes, he thinks, yes, exactly that. "I'd rather be home with a close friend or two than among a big crowd of acquaintances." He snorts lightly, well, if that's a defining characteristic it's clear that Vince is the opposite of an introvert. Extravert? Extrovert? He's not sure precisely what the other side of the demarcation is, only that there is a divide there as vast as the nightmare deserts of Xooberon.

"Don't scold me in public. Don't embarrass me in public." Hell, he should print this out and staple it to Vince's forehead. He's a little flustered just thinking about the number of times Vince has done exactly those things, the number of times his heart has fallen to the soles of his feet with dismay and betrayal as Vince flings him under the bus yet again. "Respect that I'm reserved." He wishes. Not bloody likely. Hard enough to get any respect, let alone respect for something that Vince so fundamentally doesn't understand.

But the last line settles that flustered feeling down into something a little less agitated. "And if I open myself up to you, know that means you're very special to me." Well then. He does, doesn't he? Over and over again. Because he doesn't learn, he thinks, because he's got a burning core of hope hidden away underneath his pessimism. Because, he realizes, Vince _is_ very special to him. Very special indeed. And maybe Vince hasn't realized it yet either.

He prints it out, cuts the paper down to just the image, leaflet-sized, and then he doesn't do anything with it for days. He wants to give it to Vince, wants the right moment to give it to him, but he doesn't want to stand there awkwardly while Vince reads it, isn't quite sure he wants to see Vince's immediate reaction. Finally, he tapes it to the center of Vince's vanity mirror, where he can't possibly miss seeing it, and retreats to the relative safety of a poetry slam at a coffee shop a few blocks away. He doesn't bring anything with him-- for once, he doesn't feel the need to try and claim the spotlight, ready to be still and observe. He listens, lets the other poets' words wash over him like waves, advancing and retreating and leaving nothing at all in their wake. It's the first time he's come here and not felt nervous about sharing his own words, the first time he's come here and actually listened to what people had to say instead of worrying about how he'd look in comparison to them.

When he gets a tea to keep his hands occupied while he listens, the girl behind the counter gives him a fortune cookie to go with it. Its plain sweetness complements the black tea well, and when he reads the fortune he quakes with silent laughter. "Be happy with the person you are, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise," it reads. Of course, a fortune cookie would make it sound simple. But maybe it's not as hard as he's been making it on himself. Is he happy with the person he is? No. Not hardly. Has he ever been happy with the person he is? He's not sure. Will he ever be happy with the person he is? Maybe. He hopes so. Maybe this is the first step towards that, this tiny slip of paper advising him to change his ways.

Tiny little fragments of advice. Images reposted on Facebook. Not much to try and build a foundation of happiness upon. He wanders home, looking up into the sky, the crescent moon barely visible through wispy clouds, and the flat is quiet when he comes in, no weird music coming out of either bedroom, no one in the living room. Vince is sitting on his bed when Howard comes in, and he looks up from the paper held in one hand.

"So I'm special to you?" Of course that would be what he takes from it, but before Howard can say anything, Vince keeps going. "Didn't think of it like this, y'know. Fundamental differences an’ all. We're so... so different."

“We’ve always been different,” Howard says.

“Complementary, I’d say,” Vince retorts, and he pats the bed next to him in invitation. Howard leaves a space between them when he sits, but Vince reaches out for his hand anyways, and for a change Howard doesn’t want to yank it away. “Can’t imagine you extroverted.”

“You’ve tried to drag me into it enough times.”

“I just wanted you to have fun,” Vince says. “But I went about it wrong.” Howard sits up straighter, startled by the sentiment and by the look of contrition in bright blue eyes. “I’ve been a right titbox to you lately.”

“Oh, you noticed,” Howard says, and Vince ducks his head slightly.

“Not like you’re blameless!”

“Plenty of blame to go around, Little Man.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Vince says, blurting it out without looking at Howard. “For… for tryin’ to change you. There’s nothin’ wrong with you.”

“You don’t have to lie to my face.”

“I’m not,” Vince insists, glancing up to find a look of amusement twitching Howard’s mustache up at one side. “You’re the way you are, an’ I’m the way I am, an’… we are the way we are together, still, aren’t we?”

“We always have been,” Howard says, “but I haven’t been so sure of it lately,” and Vince’s hand tightens around his.

“D’you wanna stay in tonight? Maybe just… have a chat?”

“Won’t you be bored?”

“What, bored of you?”

“Obviously.”

“As if I’d be bored of my favorite person,” Vince scoffs, and he scooches closer until his shoulder is pressed up against Howard’s. He looks up at Howard, waiting for the flinch or the reflexive _don’t touch me_ , neither of which appear, and in their absence Vince smiles, pure sunshine in his expression. “You’re special to me too, y’know.”


End file.
